


All That Glitters

by gwenweybourne



Category: The Monkees (Band), The Monkees (TV)
Genre: 1975, Angst, Biting, Dolenz Jones Boyce & Hart, Don Kirshner's Rock Concert, Explicit Sexual Content, Flirting, Glam Micky, Glam Rock, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Jolenz, Kissing, M/M, Musician rps, Period-Typical Homophobia, Sexual Tension, post-Monkees
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-24
Updated: 2020-04-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:34:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,019
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22871074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwenweybourne/pseuds/gwenweybourne
Summary: It's 1975 and Micky Dolenz and Davy Jones are working musicians once again with Dolenz, Jones, Boyce, and Hart. Don Kirshner has booked them on his live music show, and the group is excited to perform. Micky is perhaps a little too excited ...
Relationships: Micky Dolenz/Davy Jones
Comments: 25
Kudos: 21





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Based on real performance where a half-naked Micky grabbed Davy on stage and bit his neck during a taping of a _Don Kirshner's Rock Concert_. Some of us on Tumblr have been having a good time making art about it and I decided to fic it.
> 
> Link to performance ("(I'm Not) Your Steppin' Stone" is the track in question). https://youtu.be/5gQi1zJ_VIA
> 
> Rating change: Mature for chapters 1-2; Explicit by chapter 3.

It occurred to Davy Jones that it felt almost like coming full circle. Or something near to that. To be back on television and performing music with Micky Dolenz. Only this time accompanied by Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart. A television show helmed by Don Kirshner, of all people!

Donnie had been magnanimous about booking them for the show. And Micky and Davy had been willing to eat a bit of shit (with a dollop of crow) in order to land the high-profile TV gig. _Don Kirshner’s Rock Concert_ was one of the most prestigious music programs on air. Everyone wanted to be on the show.

Less than a decade had passed since Kirshner was the all-controlling ringmaster of the Monkees musical circus. Harnessing the song-writing power of his stable of writers in the Brill Building and combining it with the magic of television marketing and four handpicked young men to perform that music weekly on their own TV show.

The formula was solid and a licence to print money. And Micky and Davy had been more than fine with that. They were actors and understood they were being paid to play the parts of musicians in a fictional rock group called the Monkees. It was the other half of the group: Mike Nesmith and Peter Tork, musicians reinvented as actors, who bristled under Kirshner’s control. The man with the golden ear and the iron fist.

What resulted was a full-on coup. Mike and Peter had talked Micky into siding with them against Kirshner. Davy was the last holdout, but ultimately capitulated to peer pressure and they took creative control of the band’s music; Kirshner was ousted, at great expense to the studio.

With time and some bitter hindsight, Davy could now see that pivotal moment was the moment the Monkees began to fall apart. As a group that wasn’t formed organically, they never really learned how to work together organically as a unit. They were just so different from one another. They drifted farther and farther apart and eventually their records were like solo efforts cobbled together under the Monkees banner. Then they lost the TV series after the network rejected their demands for structural changes, then their feature film debut sank like a stone, and then Peter quit, and then Mike quit, and in the end Micky and Davy were left to carry on to the end of their contract.

In the end it always seemed to come down to Micky and Davy. The former child stars had bonded during the Monkees screen tests and before the money started rolling in, they shared a house. As they got married to their respective wives and started raising families, the two men lived close together and socialized often.

Davy and Micky. Micky and Davy.

But it was a lean time in 1975. None of the Monkees were left with much of anything when the roller-coaster ride finally ground to a halt. So much of their respective fortunes seemed to evaporate in a cloud of exploitative contracts, shady business deals, bad investments, unpaid taxes, and overindulgence. And new work was scarce as they had all been brutally typecast. But there was an offer on the table about reuniting the band to commemorate their ten-year anniversary. They all got together at Micky’s house to talk about it.

Again, it was Mike and Peter balking against it, versus Micky and Davy, who wanted to pursue it. The meeting wasn’t an unfriendly one, but ultimately a proper Monkees reunion wasn’t meant to be.

But Micky and Davy called up Tommy Boyce and Bobby Hart and put together an act. They couldn’t use the Monkees name, but they had the songs. And before long they were back on the road and appearing on television.

Okay, so playing state fairs wasn’t exactly the same as selling out Wembley for days in a row, but the gigs were fun and the fans were enthusiastic, and they were getting paid. And laid. And Davy was just enjoying performing again. The rush of adrenaline. The cheering and adulation. Being a little older and wiser and more appreciative of it.

And here they were: working with Donnie Kirshner again, if only for an evening. It was a huge opportunity. They didn’t have a record of their own, but that didn’t matter because they were going to play Monkees songs and one new song they hoped to parlay into a successful single.

There was a special buzz in the air, and it wasn’t just the pot. Davy wasn’t particularly into “vibes” and “energy,” but even he couldn’t deny that some performance nights felt different than others. Sometimes the energy really was different. Sometimes everything just gelled and everything felt right.

Micky seemed to be particularly attuned to these changes in energy. He was all but bouncing off the walls in the hours leading up to the show. He was excited and happy … maybe a little high on cocaine, but who wasn’t these days? Lately he’d enjoyed pushing the envelope a bit with the older songs. Especially with Micky’s signature tune, “(I’m Not) Your Steppin’ Stone.”

Davy, always the more conservative of the pair, had noted the rise of the “glam rock” movement with some detached interest. Blokes dressing up like birds. Bowie changing his name and hair color every other week. Feather boas and lipstick and platform shoes — it was all bit too “out there” for Davy, but it had piqued Micky’s interest. Micky spent a lot of time partying with his neighbor Alice Cooper, who had shot to fame with a theatrical stage show that was more grime than glam, but Davy could tell Micky was influenced by the rocker. And he had ideas for their show.

Davy, Tommy, and Bobby weren’t that interested in pursuing that angle themselves, but agreed to let Micky play around with glam imagery and they reworked “Steppin’ Stone” to reflect a more contemporary sound and to allow Micky to really vamp on stage. It was just a bit of fun, after all. And the crowds loved seeing Micky come out in various colored wigs and skin-tight clothing, perfecting his Jagger strut, throwing glitter confetti in the air, and somehow managing to ooze sex while looking like a … Davy wouldn’t say the word out loud. It was confusing, is what it was. But as Micky kept explaining, it was something to do with gender norms and why not fuck around with that a bit. What are you so scared of?

“I ain’t scared,” Davy scoffed. “I’m just not … like that.”

“Oh, like _what_?” Micky laughed, challenging him.

Davy shrugged. “You know what I mean …” And he walked away before he had to justify himself even more. Micky had laughed after him. “Sure, babe, keep telling yourself that!”

His laughter wasn’t cruel. Micky wasn’t like that. But he liked to have a good time. A very good time. Davy had always enjoyed a good night out on the prowl with Micky, but he didn’t much care for Micky’s “Hollywood Vampires” friends. Harry Nilsson and Alice and all them. Micky told Davy stories of blackout nights waking up in strange places and Davy laughed along, though he thought it all sounded a bit more alarming than hilarious. He worried about Micky sometimes.

Another reason why it was fun to be out on the road together. Away from Hollywood and it almost felt like old times. Almost. No more private planes and fancy hotel suites, but they did all right. And it felt more legit somehow. They were working really hard and hoping to make something of this opportunity.

Sometimes they shared rooms to keep costs down. Micky and Davy were the younger and rowdier of the quartet, so it made sense they’d room together. Back in the day they’d wanted to keep some distance between Mike and Peter, so Micky and Davy had each taken one — in the days before they all got their own deluxe suites no matter where they went. Even if they weren’t sharing, they often ended up in each other’s rooms — particularly if there wasn’t anything — or anyone — that interesting to do at midnight on a Tuesday in Scranton, Pennsylvania.

They’d have a few drinks and smoke some grass. And sometimes they’d get to reminiscing. At best, reflective; at worst, maudlin.

“We’ll get it right this time,” Micky liked to say. “I mean it, Davy. We can build this up. Tommy and Bobby will write more new songs and eventually we won’t have to lean so hard on the Monkees material. We can really do this!”

These conversations often happened in bed. Well, not _in_ bed, but often, tired by the day’s action — Davy was twenty-nine and Micky just barely thirty, but they weren’t as spry as they were in the Monkees days — they’d flop onto the bed together and talk like they were having a slumber party.

“Ever the optimist, our Micky,” Davy chuckled, reaching out to touch the little cleft at Micky’s throat. “Mate, do you ever _not_ have glitter stuck to you now?” He retracted the small, golden fleck, showed it to Micky and then blew it away.

“Hey, I was gonna make a wish!” Micky complained.

“If wishes were glitter, our careers wouldn’t be in the shitter,” Davy quipped, pleased with himself.

“Don’t say that, Davy.”

“I don’t mean it. Just rhymed well.”

Micky smiled, placated. “I try to get it all off every night, but I think I’m absorbing it. I’m a glitter god now. Bow before me.”

“Make me,” Davy scoffed, but wondered why he said that when he could have said something like “fat chance” or “you wish, asshole.”

 _Make me_.

Micky smiled in slow motion. Sometimes, if Davy was just stoned enough, it felt like it took an hour for Micky’s wide mouth to stretch into a full smile. Sometimes he just really liked looking at Micky’s mouth …

“Duly noted,” Micky said, smirking, his voice dripping with innuendo. “Thanks for the tip, _mate_.”

Davy blushed and invented an excuse to go back to his room. This version of Micky … the one who was more Marc Bolan than Bobby Sherman made Davy nervous. And Micky seemed to enjoy making Davy nervous.

And Davy couldn’t deny that he didn’t hate it when Micky made him feel nervous. Made his heart rate accelerate when he strutted on stage and leered at him. Micky, half-naked and covered in glitter, with painted-on trousers and a ridiculous wig. Slithering around the stage with such supreme confidence that it was hard to remember the times when Micky was stuck behind a drum kit for all but a few songs of the Monkees’ sets. The girls – some still very young, but there were far more young women now — screaming their heads off. Micky, newly divorced and back on the market — was having a field day.

Not that Davy, also recently divorced, wasn’t feeling his oats now, as well. He, too, was older and more confident and experienced.

It wasn’t for any lack of action, that was for sure. But there was just something about Micky. Something that had always been there, Davy supposed. Their easy physicality — they would go from roughhousing to full-on fighting to cuddling in a matter of moments.

And now they were on this new adventure together.

Back in business with Donnie Kirshner. For one night. What a trip.

When they came back out on stage for their next short set, beginning with “Steppin’ Stone,” they were all pretty revved up. But no one more than Micky. Davy, Tommy, and Bobby took their places at the mics and started into the very simple choreography they’d developed for the song, while Micky had free rein to move around the stage as he sang.

Micky all but exploded onto the stage in a cloud of glitter, bare-chested save for a several strings of shiny colored Mardi Gras beads, his curly hair stuffed under a gaudy purple wig with an attached mask, and a pair of trousers that looked like Micky had needed to be sewn into them. The crowd went wild. Micky miscalculated his trajectory somewhat and nearly took Tommy down like a bowling pin, but they both recovered quickly and Micky hip-bumped Davy as he preened for the audience.

Micky strutted by and looked Davy in the eye as he sang the opening lines to the song. Davy felt the look all the way down into his stomach and he unconsciously turned as Micky slunk in behind him, and then, suddenly, Micky grabbed him from behind. Davy’s eyes flew open in surprise as Micky dipped him back and then, just for a fleeting moment, Micky’s breath was hot in his ear and he growled as he sank his teeth into Davy’s neck. Davy couldn’t hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, but later, Tommy would tell him that the girls screamed extra loud when Micky put his hands on Davy.

And then it was over, and Micky pushed Davy away, gently but firmly, spinning him nearly 360 degrees and Davy was completely disoriented. He gazed confusedly at Tommy, who stepped forward and gently nudged Davy into facing the right direction, clapping exaggeratedly over Davy’s head to get him back on the beat.

He wasn’t able to quite get his breath back for the rest of the show. He just watched Micky wiggle and writhe and throw handfuls of glitter into the air that rained down on him and stuck to his sweaty bare chest as he screamed and moaned the lyrics in a way that would have never got past the NBC censors while _The Monkees_ was still on the air.

* * *

Later, they were in their dressing room and Davy kept stealing glances at Micky. Finally, Micky turned to Davy, toweling his sweaty hair, glitter still glinting off his chest.

“What?”

Davy shrugged. “Whaddya mean, ‘what’?”

“Davy.” Micky didn’t need to say anything else.

“What was that? On stage?” Davy asked.

It was Micky’s turn to shrug, “Whaddya mean, ‘what was that on stage’?” he parroted.

Davy shook his head, chuckling, turning away from Micky. “You’re barmy, man. A complete nutter.”

But then there was a sudden warmth behind him and Davy bit back a gasp as Micky slid up behind him and whispered hot in his ear, “Did you like it?”

Davy closed his eyes for a moment. A list of options flashed behind his eyes.

  1. _Brain him_
  2. _Laugh it off and walk away_
  3. _????_



“You remember when I busted Peter’s face open?” Davy said tightly.

Micky’s lips brushed Davy’s earlobe. “Did he come on to you?”

“Of course not. You know what that fight was about.”

“I’m not scared of you, Davy.”

“Maybe you should be.”

“I’m not scared of anything. Not anymore,” said Micky, and he bit Davy’s neck again. Harder this time. And for longer. Much longer. Swiping his tongue over the bite marks. Davy gasped aloud, the sound startling him. He felt a rush of blood straight to his cock. “Micky!” he growled, turning around and pushing him away, hard.

Micky just grinned and stumbled back a few steps.

“Are you high, man?”

Micky laughed, shrugging. “Does it matter? It’s the ’70s, man. We’re all high. There are no rules anymore. We’re free!”

“That’s bollocks, Micky. There are still rules. This ain’t some kind of … utopia.”

“That’s your bag, man,” Micky said, tapping his head. “I’m … I’m … I just wanna do everything I can. While I still can. While I’m young-ish. You and me … we let them put us in a box for all those years. And then we got married too young. That was like another box, Davy. I’m done with all that. Aren’t you? You sing ‘I Wanna Be Free’ every fucking night … do you mean it?”

“It’s a song, Micky,” Davy said, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at Micky, hoping it would deflect attention away from his hard-on. He hadn’t picked up or wanked off in a day or two … that’s all that was.

“But it’s a philosophy, too, don’t you see?” Micky said. He chanced a step closer to Davy. “I seen the way you look at me. When I come out and do the whole glitter thing.”

“Like what?” Davy sneered.

“Like you want to eat me. Believe me … I’ve been getting that look from women … and men … for years. I know what it looks like. But I knew you never would first, so I decided to take a bite. It’s good, Davy. It’s real good.”

“You’re crazy, Micky,” Davy whispered. “I don’t know what you’re on, but it’s making you act crazy. I don’t like it when you’re like this.”

Micky stepped closer and reached out his hand. Davy didn’t flinch this time as Micky tenderly cupped the side of Davy’s cheek. “It’s just me, Davy. Your pal Micky. Just a bit sparklier. A bit freer.”

Davy swallowed, again sorting through the instincts to flight or flee.

“You think I’m sexy, you think I’m sexy,” Micky sing-songed in a way that made Davy smile, even though things were getting a little out of hand.

“Shut up,” Davy said, failing to hide his smile. It was so hard to stay mad at Micky or even a bit cross with him when he acted out.

Micky was back in his face again, but Davy didn’t feel like punching him this time.

“There was a time when millions of little girls wanted to kiss you so bad they kissed their magazine pictures every night before bed until they wore out,” Micky said softly.

“There was a time,” Davy replied quietly, looking into Micky’s brown eyes.

“I thought it wasn’t fair that I didn’t get to kiss you, either, even though I see you all the time,” said Micky. “And I ain’t a little girl.”

“That you are certainly not,” said Davy. “Micky, I —”

He was cut off by the soft press of Micky’s lips to his. He didn’t move, simply closed his eyes and let it happen.

And then Micky was drawing away, rubbing his towel over his head again. “Worth the wait, man. I thought maybe it was overhyped, but it’s not. That’s pretty outta sight.” He winked and swaggered out of the room, leaving a faint trail of glitter behind as Davy stared after him, utterly speechless.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me know if you'd like to see this continue! I've never written Jolenz before, but I like them like this.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension is still building, but Micky and Davy aren't really talking about what happened. Meanwhile, Davy has a run-in with Don Kirshner and Micky gets in a bad way during a boozy night out in New York City.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did so much searching and could not figure WHERE Don Kirshner's Rock Concert was taped. I had assumed LA, but then found out it was spun off of a show in NYC, so I moved it there. And that might be wrong, but honestly, I wasn't switching it back again. And Kirshner was always a New York guy, so seemed to make sense he'd be based there at this point. Not like I'm going for painstaking historical accuracy for a story that is otherwise pure fiction, but in case anyone wondered.

Davy quickly got the rest of his things together and was ready to split the entire scene. _Rock Concert_ stank of LA, but was shot in New York, so it was back to the hotel. Davy wished it were LA so he could go home.

Don Kirshner was waiting for him in the corridor. He gave a little smile and held out his hand to shake. “You boys were terrific. Really, really terrific.”

Davy inwardly bristled at the term “boys.” Don had been calling him a _boy_ since day one, and he’d been one then, but this … at best, this was condescending; at worst, calculated. Micky had turned thirty in March; Davy would be thirty at the end of the year. Tommy and Bobby were pushing forty. _I’m a divorced father of two, for fuck’s sake._ But Davy plastered his trademark grin on his face and took the proffered hand. “Thanks, Donnie. Thanks a lot. It was a lot of fun. A really groovy time. We appreciate you having us on.” _Play nice. Be nice_.

He took a bit of comfort in how ridiculous Donnie looked. Not only had the producer insisted on naming the show after himself, he also insisted on hosting it — and he had the stage presence of a piece of stale bread. Davy found it astounding how a man who was so attuned to great-sounding music could be so flat and bland in person. In attempt to project a slightly more “hip” image, Donnie had traded in the formal 1960s tailored suits and ties for trendier butterfly-collared shirts and leisure suits. He'd even grown his hair out a bit, but Davy would have no problems taking a bet that he was wearing a rug. An expensive, well-fitted rug, but a rug nonetheless. Or else an incredibly well-groomed combover. He looked like every LA and New York slimeball cliché rolled into one. And Davy had met countless numbers of them. Many with predatory glares. But never Donnie. All Donnie ever wanted was money.

Kirshner let Davy’s hand go and shrugged. “Figured you boys could use the boost. You got a great sound. I should know … it’s _my_ sound” — Davy almost broke his jaw in keeping his smile on — “I always liked you and Micky. And of course Tommy and Bobby were my guys. But if those other two sons of bitches had been involved … forget it.”

Davy just kept smiling and let out an uncomfortable chuckle. Don patted Davy on the shoulder. “You shoulda stuck with me, kid. And Dolenz — kid had a rock voice we didn’t expect. We could have taken that to the stars. They never should have hired Tork and Nesmith. If I’d had a say in casting it’d be a different story entirely. You’d both be on top of the world.”

If it had just been Davy, Kirshner would have tailored his speech just for him, but since Micky was involved, it was both of them. Davy was experienced enough now to know that.

 _Keep smiling, Jones. Keep it up. You’re almost in the clear._ “Well,” he said, forcing his tone to stay cheerful, “I think we did all right for a while. It was an adventure while it lasted, yeah? Can’t change the past.”

“You got that right.” Kirshner smirked. “Most times you only get one shot. I hope that's not the case with you guys.”

“Thanks again, Donnie,” Davy said, signaling an end to the excruciating exchange. “See you around.”

“With any luck,” Don replied, nodding at him with another smug smile, before heading off in the opposite direction.

Davy walked away, forcing himself to keep a relaxed pace. “Fucking wanker,” he muttered under his breath as soon as he reckoned it was safe. “Fucking smug bellend gobshite ...”

“Oh, I heard that!” Micky was waiting for Davy at the exit.

“You didn’t hear shit,” Davy muttered, shoving past Micky, who followed him out.

“Fucking smug bellend gobshite, I believe,” said Micky cheerfully. “See, I know what that means now. Helps having an English ex-wife! Pretty sure she called me all those names at some point. And more …”

“Piss off, Micky!” Davy growled.

“Oh, Sammy said that one all the time, too! I think it became a term of endearment at some point …”

“Micky, I swear …”

“You talked to Kirshner, didn’t you?”

Davy stopped, turning to look at Micky. “Yeah. Did he get you, too?”

“Ohhhh, yes, he was laying in wait for me. Like a leisure-suited … I dunno … cobra?”

“Couldn’t just leave well enough alone. Couldn’t be gracious about it.”

Micky laughed. “Have you _met_ Donnie Kirshner?”

“It’s not funny, Micky!”

“Sure it is,” Micky said nonchalantly. “Don’t let him under your skin, Davy. That’s how he wins. In reality, he’s an old dinosaur on his way out and he’ll do anything to cling to relevance. Let him think he’s putting us in our place for something we did eight years ago. Fuck him. We got what we needed from him and now we’re free.” Micky patted Davy’s shoulder and then turned his attention to Bobby and Tommy, who were arriving as their car came to take them to the hotel.

Davy looked after Micky with a small smile. He was one of the oddest blokes Davy had ever known. Acting mad one minute and sagely wise the next. If the entertainment industry was an asylum, then Micky was one of the top lunatics and Davy always felt safer with him around. He’d never been properly prepared for the world of entertainment outside of the theatre world. He’d put his trust in many of the wrong people. Taken advantage of and ripped off, leaving Davy suspicious of most everyone who wanted something from him. But never Micky. In some ways Micky was wise beyond his years and in others, Davy felt very old compared to him. From the time he was a young teenager, he’d been the sole support for his family in England, until his sisters married and his father passed away. Micky was thirty years old and still had his mother managing his money for him.

Davy had married Linda and become a father of two. Micky had become a parent, as well, but he’d also moved Sammy’s parents into his house and his in-laws essentially acted as surrogate parents as Micky kept partying ever the same as he had as a bachelor. Davy reckoned Micky still saw the world as one big party because he’d never really been forced to see it any other way. Maybe he would never really have to grow up.

But Davy didn’t begrudge Micky that. He still knew that he’d had a very fortunate life compared to many. Micky’s outlook often kept Davy from getting too lost in his own darker thoughts. And Davy got the impression that Micky needed him, though he wasn’t sure entirely what for, beyond career clout, and friendship. They were both very aware that they were more powerful working as a team than trying to make it solo, as Mike and Peter continued to struggle to do. But something had shifted in his old friend since he’d gotten divorced. And it was coming out in strange ways.

* * *

Davy met up with some of his old New York friends for dinner that night. Micky had plans to go clubbing god knows where.

“Max’s Kansas City, man. It’s the place.”

“Innit full of those … punkers now?”

“Exactly!” said Micky. “Kids with safety pins through their noses and far out shit like that. I wanna go see it. And this other place CBGBDEFGLMNOP or somethin’. I dunno … I’m just following the crowd.”

“Naw, you go on. I’m meeting some of my old theater mates.” And he was still feeling a bit out of sorts after the run-in with Don and … Micky doing whatever he was doing. Biting. Kissing.

Micky waggled his eyebrows and indicated a limp wrist. “I may get _theatrical_ myself later, dahling …”

Davy furrowed his brow. “Micky … what are you on about?”

“New York brings it out in me!” Micky said breathily as he strutted away. “See ya when I see you, babycakes!”

* * *

Davy saw Micky much earlier than expected. He’d had been asleep for at least a couple of hours when there was pounding at his door. Startled, he snorted awake and stared at the door, his heart hammering in his chest. —

“Daaaaavy,” Micky slurred. “Daaaaavy, lemme in … DAA —”

Davy yanked the door open and pulled Micky inside before he could finish yelling. “Christ, mate!” Davy hissed, shutting the door. “Wake up the whole bloody floor, willya?”

Micky’s face crumpled and Davy worried he was actually about to cry. “Micky … what are you on? What did you take?”

Micky shrugged, looking at his shoes, swaying. “Some blow … some pills … not sure what kind … I’m sorry, Davy … I just … Davy, I …” he looked helplessly at Davy, his lower lip trembling.

“You’re crashing, Micky,” Davy said softly. “C’mon now … you’re just coming down, is all. It’s all going to be okay. Let’s get you back to your room.” He laid his hand on Micky’s shoulder.

“No,” Micky said, shaking his head petulantly like Davy’s daughters did when asked to do something they didn’t want to do. “Nononononono … no … Davy … Davy, no … Davy … no one knows me, Davy … no one does … except you, Davy …”

“What are you on about?” Davy asked gently asked his friend for the second time that night, accepting that Micky would not, and probably should not be left alone, so he steered the man toward his bed. “You have lots of friends, Micky.”

“They don’t know me,” Micky mumbled. “They don’t understand. They weren’t there. You were there, Davy. You understand. No one else … the others … they weren’t there …”

“Mike and Peter, too,” said Davy, urging Micky to sit on the edge of the bed and kneeling to slip off his shoes.

“They’re not here.” Micky pouted. “They’re never here. Why do they keep leaving us, Davy?”

“I dunno, luv,” Davy said, the endearment slipping off his tongue without him even realizing. “I dunno. They just did. But it’s okay, Micky. I’m here. I’m always here.”

“You’re always here,” Micky sighed, letting Davy pull off his T-shirt. Davy thought about helping Micky with his trousers, but he couldn’t be reasonably sure that Micky was wearing underwear and he didn’t want to deal with … that … at the moment. He nudged Micky to lie down and pulled the covers up over him.

“For better or for worse, innit that what they say?” Davy said, slipping back into bed on the other side.

Micky immediately snuggled up to him in an intimate way that took Davy aback.

“I kissed you, Davy …” Micky mumbled. “I kissed you and I liked it and you didn’t say anything.”

“You walked away,” Davy murmured, also figuring Micky wouldn’t remember any of this the next day.

“I wanted you to follow me,” Micky muttered. He leaned up and brushed his lips over Davy’s again. “You never follow me. I always have to find you.”

Davy touched Micky’s face tenderly, then stroked a hand over his hair before urging Micky to roll over so he could spoon him like he did his children when they couldn’t sleep or had a bad dream. “Go to sleep, Micky.”

Micky curled up on himself, but let Davy hold him. “I’m sorry, Davy … I’m really sorry … Davy … I’m sorry …”

“Shhhh,” Davy soothed. “It’s all right, luv. Just close your eyes. Go to sleep.” He rubbed Micky’s bare back in slow circles. “Everything will seem better tomorrow morning.” _Or not, depending on what you’ve taken or how much you had to drink._

“Why do they still make fun of us, Davy?” Micky muttered. “So tired of being a joke … I’m so tired …”

“Shhhh, it’s all right, Micky,” Davy said, and pressed a kiss to Micky’s temple.

Micky found one of Davy’s hands and twined their fingers together. He closed his eyes and didn’t say anything else.

Even after Micky passed out, he held fast to Davy’s hand. Davy didn’t let go of him. It didn’t feel wrong to hold him. It didn’t feel wrong even a little bit. And he wasn’t sure what to make of that.

* * *

Davy woke up early and slipped out of the room to go take a jog. It was a habit he’d gotten into recently and perhaps part of it was to do with enjoying the freedom of it after those intense years of being unable to go anywhere in public without heavy escort.

Celebrity in New York and Los Angeles was different, anyway. The locals seemed to pride themselves on being above caring about famous people. Since they were everywhere. And Davy liked being out in the city when it was still waking up, the sun just peeking over the East River as he ran, legs pumping, his heartbeat pounding in his ears. He wondered if Micky was awake yet. He’d stayed with Davy all night, curled up close to him like an overgrown puppy.

Davy wondered if Micky was lonely. He’d hardly been a model husband, but Samantha’s request for a divorce had hit him very hard. And Davy could understand that. He hadn’t wanted to split from Linda, either, but in the end they just couldn’t make it work in a way that suited them both. It had been a hard adjustment learning to live alone after so many years of sharing a house with his wife and two very young children, who were always a source of happy noise and joyful chaos. But Davy didn’t mind being alone quite as much Micky seemed to mind it.

It occurred to him that he’d thought of virtually nothing except Micky lately. Especially after yesterday. The way Micky had come up behind him and purred in his ear. Bitten his neck and kissed him. Making Davy hard almost instantly.

He didn’t want to think about it. Not really. He shook his head and began to sing in his head, finding a tune that matched the pace of his running steps.

* * *

Micky was still asleep when Davy returned. He shook his head ruefully and headed into the shower. They had to hit the road soon, but Davy would let Micky rest until he was out of the shower at least.

But when he re-entered the room about fifteen minutes later, towel wrapped around his slim hips, Micky was sitting on the edge of the bed, struggling back into his T-shirt. He looked up at Davy in his towel and actually blushed.

“How are you feelin’, Mick?” Davy asked, trying to keep any teasing notes out of his voice. It was normal to take the piss when someone was clearly hung over, but Micky had seemed so upset.

Micky shrugged, managing a thin smile. “I hit New York and it hit back. I’ll be all right, though. Just need some coffee. Maybe a new skull. No big thing.” He paused awkwardly. “I’m … I’m sorry I disturbed you last night. I’m sure you were fast asleep when I got in, I —”

“No bother,” Davy said quickly, tugging awkwardly at his towel. “You were … I … are you okay, Micky? You were upset.”

Micky groaned, putting his head into his hands. “Shit. I really hoped I … well, we hit some bars and clubs. And one of them … I dunno … this guy recognized me and started shooting his mouth off. Trying to impress his cool, arty friends, I guess. Asking me if I was missing a supermarket opening to come and slum with the kids. It’s this whole scene here right now … I don’t get it. Everyone is all serious and humorless and too fuckin’ cool for anything. I hate it.”

“You didn’t get into a fight, did you?” Davy asked, concerned.

Micky shook his head. “Naw … kid was a little twig of a thing. I would have pulverized him without even trying. I’m not even that good of a fighter.” He snorted to himself. “Though maybe it would have been the good kind of bad PR. I can see it now” — he gestured with his hands as if revealing a newspaper headline — “‘Former Monkee Micky Dolenz Arrested After NYC Bar Brawl Beatdown.’”

“Nice alliteration.” Davy smirked.

Micky smiled wanly, standing up. “Um … thanks for letting me crash last night. I … appreciate it. I’ll, uh, see you on the bus in a bit.”

Davy felt Micky’s eyes drift over his almost-naked form almost like a touch, and he shivered. “Yeah,” he murmured, as Micky let himself out. “See ya.”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's about a week later and things heat up again. In a big way that Davy can no longer deny.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There be smut here. Note rating change to Explicit.

* * *

They didn’t talk about that night afterwards. They continued the tour and Micky continued to do the glitter act and continued to get a little handsy with Davy on stage, but offstage he was a bit more low-key after the events in New York. However, Davy knew Micky well enough to be certain that this was just a resetting period and his mercurial friend would swing back up again before long. As for himself, Davy often found himself mulling over the odd events that had preceded the evening he’d undressed Micky and let him sleep in his bed. The biting. The kissing. The drug-addled confession _. I kissed you and I liked it and you didn’t say anything._

Davy had liked it, too. More than he cared to admit. But he certainly wasn’t going to say anything about it. Micky had a tendency to be flighty, jumping from one interest to the next. Whether it was the latest electronic musical gadget, a new make of car, or a fashion trend. Sometimes that applied to people, too. Davy rarely had bothered remembering the names of any of the pretty young women who turned up on Micky’s arm after his marriage had ended for good.

Besides, Davy had been busy having his own flings with his own revolving door of conquests … though he hadn’t been as interested in scoring lately. He’d decided to chalk that up to tour fatigue. He’d get his second/third/fourth wind before long.

* * *

They were at a bar. It seemed like they were always at a bar. Which Davy didn’t mind at all. He’d grown up with pub culture in England and it was how most people passed their evenings. Sometimes all of their time, but Davy had left the country for Broadway long before he’d had a chance to fall prey to that.

They were having a good time. Davy had a solid buzz on, but hadn’t crossed over into drunkenness yet. Micky was in good spirits (in the literal and figurative way) and he’d been sneaking cheeky glances at Davy all evening. Davy had responded with smirks and silly faces guaranteed to make his friend laugh. He liked it when Micky laughed, even though it wasn’t a hard thing to do. The way his wide mouth went even wider and the sound of his laugh, which ranged from a musical giggle to a high-pitched bray; the way the pleasure moved over the entirety of his expressive face. It was a sight better than when Micky was unhappy or sad and his entire face seemed to collapse.

No, tonight was a good night. And Davy needed to take a piss.

“Back in a mo’,” he said to no one in particular. “Time to return the cocktail I rented.”

The lavatories were located downstairs. The men’s room was empty and Davy whistled to himself as he did his business and washed his hands. And then he heard someone else pick up the tune he was whistling. Raising an eyebrow, Davy slowly turned around. He was wary of being approached in men’s rooms because it usually meant an unwanted proposition or an uncomfortable fan encounter. Or both.

But it was Micky, who grinned at him. “It’s just me, man.”

Davy smirked. “Didn’t need to announce yourself, y’know.”

Micky shrugged and leaned into the doorway, levying a lascivious look at Davy. “Oh, I think I did.”

Davy let out a sighing laugh that was halfway between exasperated and nervous. “Micky … not this again.”

“Not what again?” Micky asked innocently.

“Mick …”

Micky took a step closer. “You’ve been looking at me tonight.”

“I’m hanging out at a bar. I have eyes. I look at people when I’m talking to them. It’s polite.”

“But you’re not talking to me … just looking at me. And I’m looking at you.”

Micky was effectively blocking the exit with his body. But Davy knew he could leave if he wanted to. He was perfectly capable of fighting his way out of anywhere he didn’t want to be, but Micky wouldn’t make him fight.

“This ain’t the place, Mick,” he finally said, unable to deny the moment that was passing between the two of them. They had been flirting all evening, even if it had felt playful to Davy, he knew there was more to it than that.

“Feels all right to me,” Micky said softly, and then he was right in front of Davy, tipping up his head for a kiss. A real kiss. Davy felt his body react immediately as Micky’s lips pressed against his and his tongue teasing … requesting. Davy groaned and parted his lips, and let Micky kiss him properly.

And then, before he could think twice about it, Davy grabbed Micky roughly by the front of his shirt and dragged him into one of the stalls, slamming the door shut and shoving Micky up against the wall, kissing him hard again. Micky groaned, wrapping his arms around Davy, running his fingers through his hair and clutching at his back and sides. Micky was so warm against him; Davy could feel him nearly writhing against his own body and then he felt Micky’s hardening cock outlined in his tight jeans, pressing against Davy’s thigh. The sensation was enough to jolt him back into awareness and he broke the kiss, staring at Micky, who stared back at him in confusion, panting.

“What the fuck are we doing?” Davy gasped. “Anyone could walk in. Can you imagine the headlines if two of the former Monkees get caught snogging in the men’s toilet!” He wrenched open the stall door and walked out, leaving Micky staring after him. Micky shook his head in a futile attempt to redirect some blood back there and followed, calling Davy’s name.

Davy stopped and turned, looking hard at Micky. He was so confused. And turned on. And scared.

“Then take me somewhere,” Micky whispered imploringly. “Please, Davy.”

Davy’s brow furrowed and he chewed his lower lip, Micky’s plea searing into his memory. _Take me somewhere_. “What are we doing, Micky?” he asked again.

“Something we’ve been holding back on for years,” said Micky, looking Davy in the eye.

 _Have we? I have no clue. I have no blood in my sodding brain_. Davy’s eyes closed for a moment, then he said, in a low tone, “I’m going to go back upstairs and make my excuses. I’m going back to the hotel. You stay for at least another half hour, Micky. I mean it. And come to my room. Unless you change your mind. I’ll understand.”

“I won’t change my mind,” said Micky. “What if you change your mind?”

Davy quirked an eyebrow. “’Ave you ever known me to go back on a firm decision once I’ve made it?”

Micky smiled a little, shaking his head.

Davy managed a rueful chuckle and looked in the mirror, smoothing down his hair. “Tidy yourself up a bit, mate. You’re a mess.”

Micky shrugged. “I’ll just tell ’em I ran into a hot piece of ass downstairs.”

Davy’s head whipped around and he half glared half laughed at Micky. “I beg your pardon?”

“It’s the truth!” Micky said, his eyes twinkling mischievously before his voice softened. “Go on … I’ll follow you. I’ll always follow you.”

“No one follows me,” Davy said with a wink, calling out over his shoulder before strolling out. “I always have top billing.”

“Always gotta have the last word, too,” Micky muttered good-naturedly.

* * *

And Davy did what he said he’d do. Claimed fatigue and said his good-nights and goodbyes and took a taxi back to the hotel. Once in his room he immediately started second-guessing what he was doing with Micky. _This is mad. You’re not gay. Micky’s not gay … well, I don’t think Micky even knows what he is right now. Why did I go along with this? Why did I ask him to wait thirty bloody minutes? It’s enough time to completely go crazy …_

Wait.

Then Davy’s face split into a smile and he laughed softly shaking his head. “It’s Micky. There’s no bloody way he’s going to wait half an hour …”

And then there was a sharp rap at the door.

Davy laughed again and looked out the peephole before opening the door.

“You couldn’t wait thirty minutes …”

“Are you outta your mind? I couldn’t wait thirty minutes!” And then Micky kicked the door closed and threw himself at Davy and the younger man didn’t have a chance to think about much after that.

* * *

He was in a chair. How’d he get across the room into the chair? Micky’s frantic kisses rendering him half blind and now Davy’s hands were buried in Micky’s curly hair and Micky’s mouth was busy sucking Davy’s cock.

Davy’s head fell back and he let out a shaky groan as questions were answered. He’d long been fascinated with Micky’s unique features and especially his wide, prominent mouth, which Davy envied if only because he was sure it was a large feature of Micky’s powerful singing voice. He’d noticed a number of strong singers shared this feature: Micky, Carly Simon, Mick Jagger, that queer fellow from Queen …

_Queer … that’s a joke. What are you doing right now?_

“I don’t care … it’s so fucking good …” Davy answered his own inner voice.

Micky made a sound, still blowing him, but casting his brown eyes up questioningly at Davy.

Davy smiled. “Nothin’, man … you’re just … really good at this …”

Micky let Davy slip from his mouth and grinned mischievously. “Baby … like they say in the song … you ain’t seen nothing yet …”

Davy laughed again, softly, breathless. “You smug git … yet somehow I believe you …”

Micky didn’t reply because even he knew it was impolite to talk with one’s mouth full.

* * *

He was inside Micky. He was _inside_ Micky. He couldn’t believe it. It had just happened … Micky quietly pleading with him as they pulled off the rest of their clothes and stumbled to the bed. “I want it so bad, Davy … I want you … I’ve done it before … you won’t hurt me, promise … please …” And he was slicking Davy’s cock up and then Davy was moving between Micky’s legs and … then he was inside him. The tight heat took him aback and he gazed down at Micky, though his brain wasn’t really processing sight or sound. Until Micky laughed softly, his eyes twinkling.

“It’s good, isn’t it? Really fucking good.”

“Huh?” Davy managed to gasp.

“Exactly. And you feel incredible. Now fuck me, Jones.”

“Don’t tell me what to do,” Davy groaned, but he smiled as he began to move and Micky let out a keening, satisfied groan.

“Oh, fuck … Davy … yeah …”

Unsurprisingly, Micky was a very vocal and enthusiastic lover, which made things even more strange and exciting. Davy liked to think he wasn’t too bad between the sheets, though he was a bit more of a traditional guy. Free love and nudity and orgies and the _Kama_ _Sutra_ and all that hippie rubbish that Peter Tork had espoused had always made Davy feel incredibly uncomfortable. Peter had once described Davy as _vanilla_ and Davy wasn’t sure what that meant and whether or not it was meant as an insult or just Peter being weird Peter and Davy didn’t give him the satisfaction of asking what it meant. It didn’t sound terribly complimentary at any rate.

But what was he doing now? Balling his old friend … and enjoying it. _Really_ enjoying it.

“Stop …” Micky gasped, interrupting Davy’s ruminations.

“Huh?” Davy gasped again. “Oh … Micky …” He stopped moving entirely and made to pull out, but Micky firmly grabbed Davy’s ass and held him in. Squeezing his muscles around Davy’s cock and causing him to let out a gasping moan.

“Don’t stop _that_!” Micky scolded. “Stop thinking so much. Get out of your head and fuck me. You’re allowed to like it.” He rolled his hips, letting his own erection rub against Davy’s hip. “I fucking love it. And I’ve wanted it … with you … for a long time.”

And then he pulled Davy down and kissed him hard and deep and Davy let his fears and worries drop away and lost himself in the moment. In Micky. Listening to Micky’s moans and sighs and occasional murmured instructions. _A little deeper … oh god, right there … yes … please … touch me … please, Davy …_

Jerking off a bloke while fucking him at the same time … that was a bit of patting-your-head-while-rubbing-your-stomach kind of coordination, but it was worth it to see Micky’s eyes roll back in ecstasy when Davy took him in hand while thrusting hard and deep inside of him. Micky cried out and arched up against Davy, wrapping his long legs around him, pleading for more. _More, harder, more, Davy_ … and Davy let out a helpless growl and began to pound Micky into the mattress, drinking in his cry of pleasure as they kissed and licked and even bit each other. Micky’s feral response to being taken by Davy was infectious and he found himself muttering filthy things … he had never been much for dirty talk, but Micky seemed to bring it out in him.

It felt so good. He’d had no idea this could feel so good. And he was going to come soon and really wanted to hold off until Micky finished. It was a point of pride for him. He gritted his teeth and groaned.

“I’m close, Davy,” Micky moaned, seeming to read his mind. “Oh, I’m real close … don’t stop, baby … please don’t stop … take me there …”

Davy let out a gasping moan and buried his face into Micky’s shoulder, hips thrusting hard and fast, squeezing and stroking Micky’s cock. And then Micky clapped a hand over his mouth to muffle his sharp cry as he came. Davy gasped as he felt Micky’s orgasm slam into him, his body bucking under Davy’s weight, muscles clenching around him like a vice. Davy felt his grip grow slick as Micky ejaculated over his fingers. Davy released him and clumsily wiped his hand on the sheets before fucking Micky hard and deep and fast and then he was coming, as well, shaking and moaning as the waves vibrated through his body. He closed his eyes and let out a series of gasping groans as he released inside Micky, his hips rolling rhythmically. And then he was spent … feeling like he’d lost part of his brain in the process. He pulled out of Micky and flopped into his back, gasping for breath.

Micky’s chest heaved and he was covered in a light sheen of perspiration … and grinning ear to ear. “Holy shit,” he gasped, chuckling. “Why … why did we wait ten years to do that?”

“Ten years ago I was a nineteen-year-old kid who thought only flaming poofters took it up the arse,” said Davy archly, rubbing his hands over his face.

“You mean you don’t think I’m a ‘flaming poofter’?” asked Micky, smirking. “Aw, that’s nice, Davy. You’re a pal.”

Davy turned his head to look at Micky. “I dunno, man. Are you?”

“No!” said Micky. “Pshaw, I say!” Then he shrugged and his voice grew a little quieter. “I still dig chicks, man. A lot. But why just confine yourself to that? What for? I’m just … trying different things. Have been for a while. As you can clearly see.”

Davy smirked back. “Oh, I see. Is that what I am … a _thing_ you’re trying out?”

Micky fidgeted with the fringe on the blanket, not meeting Davy’s gaze. “I wish that were the case. Because, no, Davy … I really dig you. A lot.”

“Oh, don’t get shy on me now, Dolenz,” Davy said, poking the other man in the arm. “What are you sayin’?”

Micky laughed nervously and forced himself to look into Davy’s eyes. “I dunno, man. I dunno what I’m sayin’. Only that you’re, like … one of the most beautiful people I’ve ever laid eyes on. And I’ve wanted to make it with you for a real long time. Even before I had tried fooling around with guys. I mean … everyone had a crush on you, Davy. You made everyone … go crazy.”

“Nah, that’s crazy, man,” Davy said softly, chuckling. “You know me, mate. I got a pretty solid ego on me, but that’s too much.”

“It’s how I feel right now,” Micky said, shrugging, his eyes soft and vulnerable. Pillow-talk Micky was a new concept for Davy. He was still taking a lot of what the former drummer said with a few grains of salt. They’d just gotten off and things were a little intense.

Davy leaned in, cupping Micky’s cheek in his hand and kissing him softly. “You’re mad,” he said against Micky’s mouth. “Absolutely mad. But I always liked that about you.”

* * *

And then Micky’s mouth was all over Davy’s body, teeth and lips teasing his nipples, tongue dancing over his torso and Micky was stroking him and Davy got hard again faster than he’d expected. He wasn’t used to having so much … _done_ to him. The women he’d been with tended to be more passive in bed and he’d liked it that way. Liked it when they let him undress them and touch them and make them moan. Feeling them get wet and knowing he’d done that. Made him feel like a proper man and not just a clean, sexless teenybopper pinup idol.

But he liked this, too. He was so overwhelmed by what they were doing that he hadn’t even touched Micky very much. He reached out, almost hesitantly, and stroked his hand over Micky’s soft, fluffy hair and over the nape of his neck, then down his back. Micky sighed and arched up into his touch like a cat. Davy smiled and then he felt a little braver and pushed Micky onto his back and kissed his neck and ear, sliding a hand down his chest. And then his finger felt something a little odd. He lifted his head and looked at his hand, chuckling soft to see a piece of glitter stuck to his forefinger.

“You’re shedding again, mate,” he said, grinning, then held his finger up to Micky’s lips. “Make a wish.”

Micky was confused for a moment, and then a wide smile spread across his face when he realized Davy had remembered his complaint from the last time he’d picked glitter off Micky’s body.

He shrugged. “It’s already coming true …”

Davy laughed. “Oh, Micky … that’s corny even by my standards!”

Micky grinned, his eyes twinkling. “Fair enough. Okay, c’mon, million dollars and another headlining gig at the Hollywood Bowl!” He blew the glitter from Davy’s finger, then took it into mouth and sucked long and slow.

Davy groaned. “That mouth of yours has always been trouble, but I never knew this way …”

And then Micky kissed him again and Davy’s eyes closed …

* * *

They were fucking again. This time Micky slid a pillow under his hips and Davy took him from behind and Micky moaned with each thrust, clutching at the bedspread and Davy liked the sounds he made and wanted to hear more. Micky pushed back against him and panted encouragement, telling Davy he was good, he felt so good, please don’t stop, god, Davy …

Davy held Micky’s slender hips in his hands and rolled them both onto their sides without slipping out of him. He smiled, pleased the move had worked and continued to fuck Micky, but now able to reach around and stroke his cock. Micky arched, gasping with pleasure, resting his head against Davy’s shoulder, exposing his neck for Davy to suck and kiss and bite as he thrust harder and stroked faster, confident he’d last longer this time.

And then, a little later, Micky asked him to change positions again and it was back to missionary except Micky put his long legs up over Davy’s shoulders to let him in so deep. Deeper than before and Micky trembled and cried out, and Davy knew he was hitting that spot. He’d heard about one of the few perks of getting a cock up the arse was this supposed sweet spot that only men had. Davy felt proud that he’d managed to hit it. His cock wasn’t anything to be ashamed of, but he knew he was a bit smaller than some others. Granted, he’d seen what Peter and Mike were hauling around in their trousers and that was enough to give any man a complex.

Davy nearly bent Micky in half, reaching to kiss him as he thrust hard and deep, suddenly eager to make Micky come again. Watching his friend’s face contort as he moaned and sighed, his hips thrusting up to meet Davy and then he let out a shaky cry and climaxed without Davy even having to touch his cock and Davy felt a swell of pride before his own orgasm took him as Micky’s muscles clenched and rippled around him and it was so good … it was so fucking good …

And, again, they lay side by side, panting, sweaty and spent.

“Oh my god,” Davy groaned.

Micky chuckled breathlessly. “Yeah … something like that. God, Davy, that was incredible. Really incredible.”

Davy smiled, blushing faintly. “You’re pretty incredible yourself, mate … I’d heard you were dynamite in the sack …”

Micky smirked. “Yeah, probably from me. I’m my own best PR.”

Davy laughed, the sound clear and loud and Micky flushed with pleasure. Even after all these years he still loved it when he could crack Davy up.

Then Davy grew a bit more serious and his gaze dropped away from Micky. “So, um …” he chuckled in the nervous way he did when he felt suddenly ill at ease “what now?”

“I’m pretty tired now. It’s pretty rare I can shoot off three times in a night now. I’m not twenty anymore.” It was Micky’s turn to chuckle awkwardly now. “But … um … you can stay … if you want.”

Davy blinked. He’d been looking over at his clothes strewn over the floor and dreading the aftermath of getting dressed and going to bed alone. “Yeah … if you mean it … I mean …” he tried to affect a tone of nonchalance and shrugged. “Yeah, all right. Save me the hassle.”

“Exactly. Yeah. You should stay.”

Davy excused himself to use the bathroom and clean up a bit. He filled two glasses of water and brought them over to the bed, wordlessly handing Micky one. Micky smiled and accepted the offering. “Hey, thanks.” He took a long drink and checked to see if Davy was settled. “Can I turn off the light now?”

“Yeah, go ahead.”

Micky switched off the lamp, plunging the room into darkness. Davy lay on his back, not quite very sleepy yet. So much had happened so quickly. He wasn’t sure how to tell Micky how he’d hated sleeping alone since he was quite young. And that he’d been struggling with it again since he and Linda had split up. And even though Micky had woken him up in the middle of the night — that night that Davy had taken a crashing Micky into his bed to keep an eye on him had been one of the better nights of sleep he’d had in a long time.

Though he was sure Micky had sensed it over the years. It hadn’t been uncommon for him and Micky to kip near each other during the shooting day when _The Monkees_ was on the air. They were so overscheduled that they had to grab a few winks whenever they could. One day they curled up on a beach mat together in the sun and fell fast asleep. The warmth and contact of Micky’s arm against his had been comforting. It wasn’t even sexual … Davy just liked human contact when he slept.

Davy liked the sound of Micky’s breathing. And then Micky was shifting onto his side and slipping an arm hesitantly around Davy, spooning up behind him. Davy let him and felt a sense of calm settle over him. He felt Micky’s soft lips press against the nape of his neck.

“Good night, Davy.”

“Get some sleep, Mick.”

“Okay.” A pause. “Hey … Davy?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s all right, y’know? We’re friends. We’re always friends. I’ve known you longer than I’ve known pretty much anyone by this point. Ten years we’ve been … doing all this.”

Davy smiled, slightly relieved that Micky wanted to address the elephant in the room before they went to sleep. He patted Micky’s hand gently. “Yeah … I know. It’s all right, Mick. I’m fine. It’s all right.”

Micky threaded their fingers together, holding his hand the way he did that night in New York.

Davy let out a long breath and closed his eyes, torn between exhausted after having gotten his rocks off twice — and wanting to run through the events in his mind. That let to him having wild sex with Micky Dolenz all bloody night. Fearless, passionate and … horny Micky. Davy had never had a sexual partner quite like that before. He was already thinking ahead to the next time — probably in the morning when Micky woke with morning wood and decided to do something about it. And Davy realized he was all right with that. It was all right. All of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was working on this chapter, I found an interview Davy gave in the last year of his life. He opened up about many things and gave this very sweet quote that influenced how I wrote the end of this chapter. Speaking of his discomfort in sleeping alone since he was a young boy. 
> 
> “I suppose I felt an insecurity. It’s been difficult for me to sleep on my own — I need to feel an arm, that comfort, next to me.”


End file.
